


Whose Name Forbids Us To Forget

by maremanz



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Also Yennefer is a bad bitch and deserves the world, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, No beta we die like my soul after the mountain, Physical Abuse, Post-Episode 8, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, maybe Jaskier's immortal, maybe he isn't, post mountain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29573169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maremanz/pseuds/maremanz
Summary: Twenty-fucking-years by Geralt's side, Jaskier lamented, and the witcher refused to call him a friend. Maybe twenty-years wasn't enough.Twenty years by Jaskier's side, Geralt thought, and he was still too afraid to call him a friend in case he had to watch him go.***Jaskier was mad at Geralt and was feeling a little vindictive. As for Yennefer, he envied her.He spent a year wandering the continent, writing down everything he saw as Nilfgaard marched further North simultaneously dodging the soldiers that put a bounty on his head until he was captured.Kidnapped and tortured for months and seething with resentment, Jaskier finally told them. Told them what they wanted to hear.***Cintra fell and two weeks later Geralt met the princess. Only 14, Ciri carried the weight of an entire fallen kingdom so Geralt took her to train to Kaer Morhen hoping to find Yennefer along the way.Months passed and a routine developed but then they heard from Yennefer; Nilfgaard had deployed a squadron of troops to march up North.Compromised, the witchers readied themselves for battle.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	1. Has rent my heart in twain

**Author's Note:**

> *wipes forehead*  
> It's been a while since I last posted fanfiction.  
> Gave up on the last attempt but never had the heart to delete it.  
> Hope everybody enjoys this!!
> 
> Title from Bernard Barto's "Forget Me Not"

_I wait by the door like I'm just a kid_ _  
Use my best colors for your portrait  
Lay the table with the fancy sh-  
And watch you tolerate it  
If it's all in my head, tell me now  
Tell me I've got it wrong somehow_

| Taylor Swift, “Tolerate It” |

_Fuck him._

_Fuck Geralt of Rivia._

Jaskier kicked the pebbles in front of him, mumbling curses as he made his way to the camp. He was tempted to turn right around, storm up to his friend—ex-friend—and give him a piece of his mind. But he didn’t. He had already made his exit and left Geralt. And in all these years by Geralt’s side, he had never abided by the witcher’s wishes but he had put his heart out in the open, practically confessed, and twenty years was a damn long time and Jaskier was tired. Tired of this self-imposed loop. Tired of chasing after Geralt like a lovesick puppy, lapping up whatever little affection, little kindness the witcher so begrudgingly let out. Tired of putting up with Geralt’s shit.

Geralt didn’t need a djinn for Jaskier to leave. He had two perfectly good legs that took him up the mountain and they could bloody well take him down.

So, he didn’t turn back.

In the distance, the sky had begun to darken, clouds rolling in from the south; heavy, the air static and rolling thunder reverberated through the mountains, ready to rain on Jaskier’s sorry excuse of a parade, Without looking back, he could swear to all the gods that Geralt was perched on a rock, his silver hair undone and falling over his shoulders, his lips draw in a tight line, brooding. As he tended to do.

But he didn’t look.

He had looked far too many times.

Every time they parted ways for the winter—though Jaskier let his gaze linger a little forlornly for a second too long, capturing every drop, every rigid line that made up Geralt, to try and remember the details that made up the beauty of the witcher. Or when Geralt went to fight monsters and told him to stay with a well-executed glare, his amber eyes narrowing, and a snarl not far from the surface. It never gave the desired effect, the fear the witcher expected, but then he would take a deep breath, pause then level another glare at Jaskier and take off. It left Jaskier weak in the knees, blushing and smirking.

Hell, even when he went down to the tavern to perform and earn his keep.

Jaskier looked at Geralt a lot.

He doubted Geralt had looked at him with anything but distaste, annoyance, and frustration. Maybe amusement when some mud would be smeared across his favourite doublets and Jaskier would cry in indignation. Nothing more and nothing less than that.

His hands clenched into fists, nails nearly piercing skin. 

Tears burned in his too dry eyes, welling at the corner and he choked back a sob. The ever-present grip around his heart tightened further and he brushed the back of his hand across his cheek, not surprised to find it wet. Years of frustrations had built a fortress in his chest and he wanted to scream at the mountains only to have his voice ricochet and scream right back at him. Even through all the pain, he loved the witcher.

Love him enough to follow him for twenty-fucking-years.

Jaskier—a writer of love, heroics, drunken singalongs—the picture of tragedy.

Rays of light still lingered by the time Jaskier stumbled upon the camp. Yennefer was gone along with her magic tent and the dwarves probably located their secret tunnels and crept away. A stray bedroll lay near the extinguished fire and he quickly rolled it up, tucking it under his arm. A bundle of columbine flowers sat near where some firewood and he stepped over them. The colour of the eyes of a woman he envied.

With his lute strapped to his back, Jaskier began the slow, dangerous descent down the mountainside. He meandered down the path, halting when he reached the fork on the path. One lead straight through the ‘shortcut’ and the other through the long, perilous way down. Jaskier had no plans to plummet to his death so the long path it was.

It gave him a chance to enjoy the scenery. Wildflowers and weeds—he huffed a laugh—of varying colours, grew alongside the dirt road and he stopped a few times to pick a few to tuck them into his hair and buttonholes of his red doublet. Dandelions were the only flower he left alone. No point in pulling a weed, there was little use for it. More would grow with renewed vigour to make up for their lost brethren.

Dandelions. Little spots of yellow in a sea of green. Begging to be wanted but never needed.

A day and a half passed before Jaskier had reached the bottom. He stopped to camp by a clove of trees, placing his lute case on the ground next to him, and leaning his head back to rest it against the trunk of an old oak tree. Thankfully, it didn’t rain. The stars looked wonderous, and for a moment he wondered if Geralt was looking at them too, but he stopped that train of thought as soon as it began.

He was mad at the witcher.

Not keen on drowning in his melancholy and stabbing at fresh wounds.

However, he _did_ wonder why he hadn’t crossed paths with the witcher. There were only two ways down and even with his lack of fear and cat-like reflexes, Geralt hadn’t been too privy with using the shortcut the first time he laid eyes on it.

Perhaps he preferred it over meeting Jaskier on the safe route down. No point wishing for something and not adhering to it.

Jaskier scoffed. Typical of Geralt taking a life-threatening risk to prevent talking about his feelings. 

Roach was waiting at the base right where they—Geralt—had left her. Jaskier corrected; forcing himself to remember that there was no _them_ anymore just him. _Him_ for the first time in a long while. And will be for a long, long while after.

She was resting on the ground, her ears forwards and body straightening, readying herself for an attack but immediately relaxed when her eyes landed on Jaskier. She stood up as he approached her, nudging his hand when he lay a hand on her muzzle, carefully stroking her, her tail slightly swishing.

‘At least you tolerate me,’ Jaskier said, nearly cringing at the pitiful sound of his voice. A voice made for singing and reaching the highest of notes.

Little snippets of memories passed before his eyes. Geralt telling him not to touch Roach. Yelling at him to fuck off. Ordering him to stay put or leave. Never truly talking to him. Always grunting and silently lamenting to the gods he didn’t believe in. Yet, through it all there were times that it seemed like Geralt enjoyed his company; when he mumbled a well-timed joke at a lordling who paid the witcher fool’s gold and the corner of the witcher’s mouth would lift a fraction. Or in a drunken stupor with one foot on a chair, he would bellow out the raunchiest song in his arsenal and Geralt would look at him with admonishment and laughter in his sun-like eyes, a smile hidden behind his raised mug of ale.

Jaskier clung to those moments.

The few moments where he felt like he deserved to walk beside the witcher. Maybe even making the weight of the world and the eyes heavy with disgust and fear that followed Geralt all his adult life, feel a little less. 

Over the years, it felt more and more like he was fooling nobody but himself. 

‘Take care of him, Roach. Gods know he doesn’t do a well enough job unless someone is making him,’ Jaskier whispered like a secret shared between two old friends. ‘I _would_ pay good money to watch you stitch his wounds.’ He choked out a laugh, hoping it would ease his mind but the hand on Roach’s muzzle trembled, nearly falling on his knees as a sob escaped his lips. And like a broken dam, tears cascaded down his cheeks, a twinkle of a sound as they hit the ground.

It fucking hurt.

So much.

_Too fucking much._

He wanted it to stop.

Claw out his heart if that was the only way to make the pain stop. 

Jaskier’s shoulder shook and he covered his mouth with his other hand, physically trying to keep the tears at bay but to no avail.

They all left.

Everyone always left.

Or threw _him_ out and making _him_ leave.

At least this time he got a choice. Somewhat of a choice. A choice, nonetheless.

It was a terrifying thought—he had guarded his heart so thoroughly that he hadn’t realised that it had been stolen by a person who had no use for it.

Jaskier—a writer of love, heroics, drunken singalongs—the picture of tragedy.

Pushing his shoulders back, a runway tear dropping of his jaw and clanking on the ground, Jaskier took out any meager belongings he kept in Roach’s saddlebags and stuffed them into his satchel, and walked.

Walked as far as his legs would take him.

Hopefully to the nearest village. The further. Far enough away from Geralt.

The words still rung in his ears.

 _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take_ you _off my hands._

It was a month after Geralt had spit those words at him and shoved Jaskier’s heart back into his arms. A month spent drinking, fucking, and sleeping. And in between those, had written a song. One song. A story of three people trapped, torturing themselves by staying, barely knowing what was beyond, what life had to offer.

Pages of lyrics crossed out and rewritten interwoven with personal thoughts and little drawings. And lots of anger. Anger at himself. At the witcher. At Yennefer. At the whole damn world. He cursed the mountain wishing that the myth of dragons had remained a myth so none of this would have happened.

He was angriest at Geralt.

No.

He was livid.

If Jaskier had to pinpoint a moment when their tentative friendship began to wain and slowly fray at the seams, it would be the second it was revealed that Geralt had become a ‘father of surprise’.

The betrothal they both attended all those years ago. Quite moments they shared before and during; throwing water over the witcher’s head and teasing him for his inability to admire the finer things in life—like soap. And clothes that weren’t shades of grey and black and covered in blood and viscera and other unmentionables. Jaskier once again reminded his not-friend (as Geralt amply put it) that he wasn’t alone in the world. That there Jaskier was. Would be. For as long as the witcher wanted.

Apparently, two decades was enough for him.

But Geralt had smiled, joked around, leaving Jaskier in a near-permanent state of shock. Something warm and bubbly still stirred in his stomach when he let himself think of the witcher’s smile. And Jaskier hated it. Reprimanding his foolish, weak heart for falling in love with someone who would never love him back. Or try their absolute hardest not to.

They weren’t friends.

Then. Law of surprise. Shit hit the fan. The porcupine man turned into a human and married the love of his life. A tale as old as time. And Calanthe married the love of _her_ life too. As payment for saving Duny’s life, Geralt claimed the law of surprise.

_Surprise: an unexpected or astonishing event._

Rarely anything good came out of a surprise. By definition, you didn’t know what to expect.

Turned out, Pavetta was pregnant and Geralt wound up with a Child of Surprise. And they wound up sleeping outside that night. Rhododendrons glowed by the lingering light of the fire, the red petal caging the flames.

 _In that century-old brain of Geralt’s_ , Jaskier thought, _landing himself with a child was the bard’s fault—the innocent entertainment’s fault._ Bedazzled in his finest doublet—a shimmering gold ensemble that cost him a pretty penny—he sang with such grandeur he was sure that the pantheon of gods was applauding.

It was also the butt of far too many jokes the bard had made at Geralt’s expense. And fair few songs. The lot of them tavern ditties. Now, a frown always made a home on his face when he thought about it. Jaskier hadn’t sung those in years; composed while trailing Roach as they walked between villages and towns, admiring the fields of corn and wheat and rolling hills all the while writing overly complex metaphors and a dash of embellishing that would cause Geralt to state:

‘Lying through your teeth, bard.’

Jaskier would stick his tongue out and say that he wasn’t lying only bending the truth. The witcher would roll his eyes and a comfortable silence would fall between them. Jaskier would continue strumming his lute and crooned into the ears of his companions simultaneous to tripping over the rocks strewn across the path, Geralt’s chuckle ringing in his ear.

Years went by and Jaskier fell in and out of beds as often as he fell in and out of love. Geralt was the only constant through all of it, saving his ass the majority of the time because of his lack of self-preservation and overindulgent desire to have affairs with those tied in _holy_ matrimony or the sons or daughters of the—‘Dammit, Jaskier. Could you not wait to fuck the alderman’s son after I got paid?’

In the end, all the laughter and joy they shared regardless of the trouble that seemed to follow them through every village, town, city they went through, held no value to the witcher.

Jaskier was a burden that he shouldered for two decades.

_A year went by._

Dodging street vendors and Nilfgaard soldiers, and playing in poorly lit taverns, Jaskier survived. He sold his best clothing for cheap counterfeits and blended in as well as he could. Coin was consistently low, often making camp on the land surrounding the villages he kept to.

He frequently thought of the witcher. About Yennefer. About the mountain. 

The heartbreak that accompanied those thoughts began to simmer down, remaining as a continual hum in the back of his mind and was soon replaced with incandescent rage.

Jaskier had blamed himself for following the witcher on his path—a Path made for one—but he blamed the witcher too. For living a life of adventure, slaying the monsters of nightmares, for being a bloody hero. It was the stupidest reason, but it was the only thing he could come up with without solely laying the blame on himself.

Yennefer. The sexy yet dangerously formidable sorceress. A sorceress that could wield Chaos and make the gods weep for mercy. As enchanting and powerful Yennefer was, Jaskier knew a fractured soul when he saw one. Teasing and daunting and getting under his skin by mocking his supposed crow's feet was her way of feeling. And against his better judgment, Jaskier couldn't help but like her—admire her tenaciousness and persistence. And her impressive shield.

He met her months after he parted ways from the witcher. He was singing his second encore of the night and as his eyes swept the crowd they landed on a _very_ familiar figure. Her eyes were violent and bright and calculating, watching his every move. Her face was schooled into a flawless, bored expression. He felt like a fly on a spiderweb, but he continued. 

Jaskier picked up his coin purse, and with a mug of mead, he made his way to the table in the far corner. Yennefer was dressed in black _—of course—_ with a silver belt cinching her waist. Her hair was tied back, a plait down her back. She looked tired and beautiful. 

She raised an eyebrow watching Jaskier approach. 

‘Yennefer,’ Jaskier exclaimed, extending his arms out, the ale in his hand sloshing. ‘Not enough time has passed to help me learn to tolerate your presence.’ Jaskier mocked frowned, sitting opposite her.

‘Likewise, bard.’ Averting her gaze, she looked around the tavern. ‘When I heard the singing, if you can call it singing, figured it would be you.’ Her voice mocking and velvet.

Jaskier looked at her open-mouthed with and hand over his heart. ‘You wound me, witch.’ Then. ‘Think you could out sing me?’

Yennefer rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. ‘Where’s Geralt? Finally got rid of you?’

Jaskier flinched at the name, at the second question, a painful tug on his heart. He swallowed the ale. It tasted like ash, burning his tongue. Nevertheless, he put on what he hoped was a nonchalant mask and shrugged his shoulders.

‘We haven’t been travelling together.’

Whatever Yennefer saw on his face must have enough to stop her from asking further. Or perhaps she had read his mind. Either way, she raised her glass and nodded towards his own which he raised a clinked against hers as silent cheer to a particular idiot witcher.

‘As much as I enjoy your company—’

Jaskier snorted. ‘Which you don’t.’

‘—I’m here for someone else. Another time, Jaskier.’

He stood up, nodding at her as a farewell. He turned and took a step before he heard her say:

‘Whatever Geralt said or did, he must have had a very good reason to do so.’

Jaskier made no sign of hearing her and continued towards the stairs and to his home for the night. He closed the door and placed his forehead against the wood. What Yennefer had said failed to make him feel better, a rock in his stomach.

It made him madder.

It was harvest season when he began to write again. Pages among pages of poems, stories, lyrics, anything he saw and tried to immortalise it. Jaskier would remember it all, his mind never letting him forget the horrors and wild he saw, what Nilfgaard soldiers did out in the streets, for the world to see to get the information they needed.

Plagued with nightmares of screaming children and burning bodies, Jaskier hoped his music would be a source of relief, bring respite to those stricken by war and the ever-present presence of Nilfgaard and the looming threat of invasion.

Cintra fell a year after he fell on the mountain.

Calanthe had thrown herself out of the highest window and Jaskier prayed the young princess had flown to somewhere safe, that no sinning hands had gotten near her. He could remember only a handful of things about the little Lion Cub of Cintra: she was the exact copy of her mother, the pale blonde hair, and glowing green eyes; the same magic flowed through her veins (he had accidentally been on the end of a misaimed spell at the hands of an eight-year-old); and that she was as strong-willed as her grandmother.

Rumours of a witcher with hair as white as snow and glowing amber eyes followed him too. Or he was following them. But Jaskier would deny it till his dying breath which was—fingers-crossed—a long, long time away. He had retired as many songs he could about Geralt, for his sake and the witchers. With soldiers lurking around every corner, and people ready to betray for a morsel of food and money, Jaskier made himself as invisible as possible.

Still, there were rumours about him too. The bard who travelled with the white-haired witcher. He reverted to his given name, Julian—not obscure like his chosen one—and kept as far away from Nilfgaard territory.

He spotted a wanted poster on a town board; the description said to look at for a bard, possibly of noble birth, tall with brown hair and _green_ —Jaskier let out a sigh of relief—eyes and carried a lute.

He overheard a blonde mage whisper that Yennefer died at the Battle of Sodden Hill. Jaskier lit a handle that night, the smell of lilac in the air, and mourned her. 

It was a beautiful morning, the sun breaking through the fluffy clouds, the sky pale blue and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the marketplace, the bite of winter still clinging in the air. With his hood partly obscuring his face, Jaskier was idly walking through the streets, bumping to every busybody running around; it was springtime and the villagers were getting ready for flowering season, a feast planned for every evening for the next week. The central squire was flooded with a myriad of decorations. Scarlet pimpernels and white roses decorated an arch made of redbud branches. He ate baked potatoes seasoned with oregano and parsley and honeyed cakes and drank mulled wine. 

From the corner of his eye, he spotted the obsidian black armour of Nilfgaard soldiers, and he swallowed the bile and panic that was rising his throat. As calmly as he could, Jaskier walked towards the inn near the edge of the village where he was staying. A grave oversight in retrospect. He could hear the telltale sound of multiple heavy boots connecting with the gravel and he pulled the cloak closer around him, willing himself to keep his breath regular and posture relaxed.

But the steps were getting closer.

Closer.

And closer.

Goosebumps erupted across his skin and a prickling sensation like spiders crawling under his skin.

A shiver ran down his spine.

And Jaskier realised whoever they were, were attempting to corner him.

He kept walking, whispering a prayer that it was just a random villager.

He passed by an empty alley that reeked of piss and drink before he was pulled in and before he could scream, a bag was thrown over his head.

The last thing he noted was that the person, _person_ , was speaking a language he knew. A language that very, _very_ , few knew.

A language he thought dead.

_AND if the small flowers but knew it,_

_How deep are the wounds of my heart,_

_Weeping with me they would rue it,_

_To heal all my pain and smart._

_And had the nightingales feeling_

_Of my weariness and grief,_

_Their songs would come gaily pealing,_

_To give my pain relief._

_And if the stars in heaven_

_My sufferings could know,_

_Their light would soon be given_

_To mitigate my woe._

_But none of them can know it,_

_One only knows my pain,_

_And she who alone could do it_

_Has rent my heart in twain._

| Heine, “One Only” |


	2. Acquainted with the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's journey to Kaer Morhen with Ciri and Roach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back bruvs!  
> Thank you to everyone who read, commented, kudoed, bookmarked, and subscribed.  
> You are darlings 🥰
> 
> Title from Robert Frost's "Acquainted with the Night"

_There was a time in my life_ _  
It was lighter  
And better  
When you came around  
Made me forget  
What I was so sad about  
Sad about everything_

| Robinson, “Crave You” |

They were sitting in front of the fire, tent pitched next to them, a bedroll rolled out and tummies full. They were in a forest a few miles away from a town. A lord had paid him liberally to exterminate (the lord’s words) a nest of drowners that had been afflicting the nearby river for weeks. It was a long and tiresome process but with the drowners gone and no other monsters in the vicinity, it was safe to camp under the stars. Plus, he could avoid the hustle-bustle of the town and keep Ciri away from prying eyes.

Geralt was sharpening his steel sword, the silver one resting against the fallen log he was sitting on. Clusters of cinquefoils grew around the clearing. He had scrubbed clean the armour (of drowner guts) in their former habitat, and the Witcher let out a dry laugh at the irony. On his other side, Ciri was recounting a story that a chambermaid told her about a monster that had been ransacking her village.

‘Except it wasn’t a monster just a thief and his dog that were stealing the chickens,’ Ciri huffed, crossing her arms, and looking at Geralt. ‘It’s not a _real_ monster story but _you’ve_ got enough of those for the both of us.’ Geralt rolled his eyes, a smile on his lips. He had monster stories dating back nine decades. Give or take.

Since finding each other three weeks ago, Ciri was adamant about finding out everything there was to know about the Witcher which resulted in an endless flow of questions and guessing games. Geralt found himself rubbing his temples and cursing Geralt of fourteen years ago but the more she asked and chattered away, filling the space with incessant noise, Geralt realised that he missed the noise, even if he wasn’t listening half the time.

It had been over a year since the dragon hunt.

Since he last saw Yen and Jaskier.

‘What’s your favourite monster? Mines the bruxa!’ Suddenly, she stood up, brandishing, and waving an invisible sword around the clearing, dancing around the flames. Lambert would have harsh words about her form and stance.

‘Hair as dark as the night, a face like the moon, and bloodred lips—seducing unexpected travellers out of their pants—’ Geralt hands halted and raised his head, eyes narrowing at Ciri who had picked up a stick, blonde hair whipping round, and was using it as a weapon to fight her invisible vampire. ‘—then sucking the life out of them—’ turning towards Geralt with owlish eyes. ‘—then along came Geralt of Rivia to end her reign of terror.’ She finished with a flourish, bowing, and throwing the stick into the fire.

Geralt snorted and put down the whetstone and looked over at Roach—Roach who had stopped her grazing and was staring rather amusingly, for a horse, at the dancing princess.

‘It’s late.’ Geralt grunted, walking over to the saddlebags, and pulling out a waterskin, and handing it to Ciri. During their first-time camping, Ciri turned white as a sheet, her jaw-dropping to the ground when she found out the Geralt didn’t wash up before bed. He was about to snap back when he realised 1) Ciri was a child, 2) she was a princess, and 3) her entire kingdom had been invaded and burned to the ground by the enemy that was now hunting her and she needed a sense of normalcy. So, he guided her to the nearby stream and guarded as she washed her face.

He didn’t wash up.

Ciri struggled into the tent—which was more holes than tent—and stuck her head out and whispered a good night and Geralt hummed in response. It was another thing he started to do. Acknowledging. Before, he would ignore until the last possible moment and then would growl a response and hoped whoever it was, left him the fuck alone.

They were a day from Kaedwen. The plan was to take Ciri to Kaer Morhen where she would train and stay far away from Nilfgaard—who were invading the North at an alarming pace. Winter was approaching which meant the other Wolves would be there too. Maybe even Aiden and Coën. The more Witchers, the better.

High above the forest, the moon was waning crescent, shedding a little light into the clearing, alighting Geralt’s loose hair and making his medallion glow a supernatural silver. He let himself think of Jaskier on nights like these. Nights where the wind was sweet, the constellations assembling themselves, and the warmth of the fire licking at his cheek.

_Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days it’s you, shovelling it? The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it!_

All valid reasons. If he hadn’t been at the betrothal, then Ciri wouldn’t be with him. That whole catastrophe led to him losing more and more sleep which resulted in fishing for a djinn amphora. Djinn led to a near-dead Jaskier which ultimately led to Yen. And then he made his last wish to save her life. And now she was gone.

Geralt tucked an arm under his head and stared up at the stars. It had been months since he last heard Jaskier’s latest song. A song that was so obviously about his and Yennefer’s relationship. A tumultuous relationship that rose to a crescendo, burning white-hot and hit the ground just as fast.

It didn’t fail to piss him off whenever he heard the lyrics. The infuriating part was that it had wormed its way into his mind and made itself quite comfortable. One day, while dosed up on potions, he heard a bard singing it. It wasn’t Jaskier but it was obvious that he wrote it—the way the words were woven together, the story it told, the simple rhythm. If Geralt wanted, he could focus in and almost imagine what the song would sound like coming from Jaskier.

Later, bathed and sated he caught himself _humming_ the damn thing.

Leave it to the bard to write a fucking song about the only relationship he ever cared for.

Except, he cared about Jaskier too, for his well-being. Kept him alive for two decades, constantly saving his pasty ass from cuckolds, drunkards, bandits, the list could go on for leagues. Jaskier with his forget-me-not blue eyes and flowery language, embellishing every story and hunt Geralt told him.

Geralt didn’t look for the bard. _Good riddance_ , he often thought. He would have left eventually; when a certain countess welcomed him back with open arms, or when he finally found the love he used to sing about, or when he _left._ To place Geralt couldn’t follow.

Ciri was his sole responsibility now. He had been avoiding Destiny for 14 years.

Yet, he would go picking for ingredients, walking on dirt roads, hell even in bustling cities dandelions grew and when he spotted them his mind would supply an image of the bard laughing—cheeks flushed, nose slightly scrunched, head tilted to the side—and he would smile unconsciously, and his ever slow heart rate would pick up.

He often dreamt of the bard and Yen. Which was a surprise of itself since he rarely dreamt at all.

He let out a sigh, turning over to stare at the embers of the dying fire wafting into the air.

After his fight with Jaskier, he stood there huffing, catching his breath for what felt like hours before sitting down on a nearby rock. First with Yen, then Jaskier that day was an absolute shit storm. At least with the djinn wish tying them together, he knew Yennefer was alive. Weak but alive. With Jaskier, all he had were rumours of a frivolously dressed bard galivanting across the continent and soon those stopped too.

Geralt regretted the way things ended with them both. He shouldn’t have tied his life with Yen’s, not without her permission. But the house was collapsing, and he had to think quick. And she had saved Jaskier’s life. As much of a pain in the ass the bard was, his company and chatter had become a constant in his life. He had very few of those. Begrudgingly, Jaskier was his friend. Over the century he had been alive, the Witcher could count on one hand how many friends he had had excluding his brothers and mentor.

It sometimes felt that while Jaskier called him his friend, best friend, darling, dear heart, a myriad of nicknames, Jaskier was a bard and he followed him for inspiration. Material for his music. Travelling together for twenty years, and Jaskier’s past remained a mystery. Admittedly, Jaskier’s songs did help his reputation and the reputation of Witcher’s in general, and the coin Jaskier received a tavern at time paid for the lodgings, there would come a time when Jaskier would leave too.

Yennefer was long-living, powerful and they just fit. Black and white, purple and yellow, Chaos and calm. Their bodies melded together as if they had been made for each other, two broken pieces with jagged edges come together to create something whole. If he allowed himself to love, he would love Yen. At the back of his mind, the djinn wish tugged and nagged, reminding him there was always the possibility it was created not grown. So deep in his loneliness that a wish, a demand made with an all-mighty entity, known to twist your deepest desires then tear you apart for its own amusement, was what guaranteed that someone would be there always—as long he was. The life of Witcher was meant to be walked alone but for so long it hadn’t been.

It was the touches he missed most. He craved it. Feel the soft caress of a lover. Sometimes he would visit whorehouses and brothels just to be touched. To fell the pressure of fingers against his skin, nails digging into muscle, scratching down his back but they could never leave a lasting mark. The bruises would fade as quickly as they appeared and the red lines across his chest, abdomen, back would disappear within the hour. Phantom fingers running through his hair, dancing down his body, haunted him in every waking hour.

He wanted to touch too. Feel the bumps and ridges that made up a person. To run a thumb over someone else scars, kiss the freckles across the bridge of their nose, and run a knuckle over the notches of their spine. But who would let a Witcher touch them? Barely better than the monsters that lurked in the dark. He paid whores and when the time was up, they left and he would press the bites and bruises to try and get them to last longer. Decades ago, he confessed to Eskel well into his cups, and the latter told him the same. How he could ignore his injury to go to a healer to feel the brush of fingers as they stitched up his wound and feel a little humane. How once in a feverish sleep, he felt a gentle kiss against his brow, brushing back his hair only to wake up alone in the middle of a swamp.

Yennefer only touched him when they fucked. Wrapping her arms around him as he pistoned into her or raking her nails down his chest as she rode him. But never after. She had set a boundary early on that she didn’t want to cuddle or caress and their relationship was a different kind of transaction. Geralt knew they were using each other, both desired intimacy and longed for someone everlasting and they found that in each other.

Ciri loved to touch him and he almost cried when she asked if she could braid his hair the first time. At first, he told her a firm no mainly to keep up the pretense of an unfeeling Witcher but she was tenacious, and he relented quick. That day he sat as still as a tree lest he scared her away. She started from his crown, dragging nimble fingers through, and brushing out the knots. She teased him about the wonders of a comb, and he chuckled, something warm and lovely bubbling inside him. Then she began braiding from the top, adding more hair until she reached his neck and finished it with a simple braid, ending far too soon. His eyes had drifted close, entering a state of tranquility, and didn’t realise he leaned into the touch until Ciri tapped him on the shoulder and said it was done and he straightened up, a kink in his back. She bounded away, coming back with wildflowers—daisies, cornflowers, primroses, the lot—and looked at him with boundless warmth in those lively green eyes. Geralt nodded and she lit up like the sun and stars. She placed the stems into his hair and stepped around, assessing her work, tilting her head to the side with a small pout.

Suddenly, she brushed her fingers against his forehead, pulling a few strands from his braid, framing his face.

‘I’m a little envious,’ she said, hands on hips, mirth in her eyes. ‘You look prettier than me and I’m a princess.’ Ciri laughed, sitting next to him, crossing her arms and mock glowering.

He knew then he would fight the gods and tear heaven apart to keep her safe.

 _Fuck_.

Then there was Jaskier the Bard. The lustrously dressed bard who loved the finer things in life but still followed Geralt through swamps, muck, monster corpses to get his stories. Who lingered in front of sweet-tart and sticky bun stalls but never asked the Witcher only insistently complained until Geralt caved and brought him the damn treats. He would laugh, a whole other type of melody, a skip in his step, sucking the lingering taste from his skin. He would graze his fingers against Geralt’s interlocking their pinkies until the Witcher would pull away, growling at him not to touch him and the blue eyes would dim, the smile on his face wavering.

Late at night, whenever they shared a bed when Jaskier thought he was asleep, the bard would tentatively run a hand through his hair, tucking his hair behind his ear, whispering things in a language he didn’t know. He would ask him but then he would have to admit that he feigned sleep to feel his touch. Sometimes, Jaskier would run a finger over his medallion, humming under his breath, tears falling on his shoulder, the smell of crushed petals and sea salt heavy in the air.

Geralt wasn’t blind. He knew a man torn from love.

Vesemir warned him the first winter after meeting the bard not to get attached. Telling him there was no good outcome for a human following a Witcher on the path. It had become increasingly arduous shaking loose of the bard. Leave him in the middle of the night and he would show up the next town over. Tell him about a carnivorous beast he was to fight and he would jump to get his notebook and quill and tell him to hurry up. So, it wasn’t for the lack of trying, Geralt accepted his fate. Destiny, who didn’t believe in, deemed it the bard the Witcher’s responsibility.

A fond smile fought its way on the Witcher’s face when he remembered telling Lambert and Eskel about the many time’s he had to save Jaskier and Lambert exclaimed:

‘How the fuck is the bard not dead yet? He’s going to live longer than us at that rate!’

Even so, there would come a day Jaskier would get tired or bored or realised just how dangerous a Witcher's life was and would pack his things and go find a court that could provide for him, keep him fed, sated and safe. Away from monsters.

Words weren’t his forte, but he had plenty in his arsenal. Geralt knew the weight of the words he used on Jaskier that day. Nearly overwhelmed with the onslaught of sorrow that came from the bard and the little sniffles he tried to hide as he walked away. The smell of crushed honeysuckle and sea salt clinging in the air. If he turned, he was certain he would see Jaskier with his shoulders hunched, dragging his feet away from him.

With his eyesight, he could see little red carnations peaking through the undergrowth in the far corner of the clearing.

Kaer Morhen was a three-day ride to the north. Ciri was sitting on Roach, Geralt leading them on foot. None of them got much sleep the night before. Geralt woke up to Ciri screaming, legs tramped in her bedroll, trying to break free. He called her name, attempting to wake her but soon her voice broke and she began sobbing, still asleep. It broke something inside him. Ciri was a _child_ who was being hunted across the continent. After several weeks together, soothing Ciri during a nightmare was still new to him. The first time went terribly and still haunted him. Ciri rolling around, clawing at the tent, yelling for her mother and father.

He read or heard that gently petting, reminding the person they’re safe, and listening to the voice of a loved one usually helped. Geralt doubted he was a loved one, but it did the trick. Ciri calmed down, a whimper leaving her mouth and stray tears running down her splotchy cheeks, but she didn’t wake.

Last night, the nightmare had been the worst one. She woke up screaming for Geralt when she couldn’t see him. He was next to her immediately, holding her and swaying. She didn’t fall asleep again and they decided to start their day early.

The sun wasn’t up when they began travelling but as Ard Carraign peaked over the hill, the autumn sun was beating down on them. An oddly hot day since winter was just over the horizon.

As they reached the edge of the city, Geralt pulled his hood up, telling Ciri to do the same. Nilfgaard’s influence hadn’t reached Kaedwen but he wasn’t willing to take the risk. Ciri went by Fiona or Elen whenever they were at any sort of settlement and Geralt avoided giving his name.

The city was huge made of buildings clumped together, houses and inns plenty scattered across the area. There were districts designated to food, arts, clothes, and medicine. Vesemir once told him of a time when Ard Carraign was a mere village in the vastness of the continent. In the distance, he could make out of the stone turrets and outer bailey of the King’s palace. _At least the royal family’s safe,_ Geralt snarled.

Geralt cringed as they entered one of the main squares and closed his eyes, narrowing his focus to one of the sounds; Ciri’s heartbeat—which had picked up. It did every time there were too many people around.

He navigated through the streets, leading them towards his usual apothecary. Bakeries and food stalls lined the street leading to the shop. Both of their mouth watered at the smell. It had been weeks since they last had a decent meal. Usually, it was a couple of hares roasted over the fire or a watery stew made of deer meat and a few wild vegetables.

‘Here. Get whatever you want.’ He helped her get off Roach, tugging her hood more securely over her head, her face only a shadow, and handed her some coins. He scented the air for any strange smells but was assaulted with the delightful aroma of honey cakes and bread pudding.

‘Can I get honey cakes?’ Ciri might be a mind reader, the Witcher concluded. He hummed, trying to suppress his enthusiasm lest it showed on his face.

‘There’s a market five minutes away, can you get some apples and carrots for Roach?’ Ciri nodded, eyeing the nearest stall selling stew. He heard her stomach rumble. ‘If anyone bothers you, use your dagger.’ Ciri nodded again and he left her to her devices, climbing into the saddle and heading to his destination.

The shop was just like he remembered; mostly made of rotting wood, vines climbing up the walls, and paint chipping off the door. Begonias were growing in the pots on the windowsill. A stark contrast to the grime that clung to the windowpanes.

Geralt tied Roach to a post and entered the shop, ducking his head through the doorway, and was assaulted by the multifarious smells of oils, herbs, and an assortment of flowers. Baron, the owner of the shop was a tall ancient man with black hair, a hooked nose, and beady eyes.

‘Baron,’ Geralt greeted, inclining his head towards the other man.

‘Master Witcher.’ His voice was soft, like a spring breeze. ‘The regular?’

Geralt hummed and Baron began rummaging around the shop gathering his supplies. He was low on multiple potions and was planning on brewing most of them soon. 

Tucked away in the corner, Geralt spotted a gooseberry plant. The berries hadn’t ripened but the smell was unmistakable. Lilac and gooseberries. Purple eyes and a black dress flashed before his eyes. His heart constricted. _Fuck._ He twitched in his trousers. It had been months since he last visited a brothel. He had to abstain. Looking around, he spotted a white flower on the counter and picked it up.

 _No_.

Gardenias. 

Jaskier.

Gardenias. Honeysuckle. Ink and parchment. Chamomile.

_Shit._

‘Master Witcher?’ Amber eyes shot up to look at the shopkeeper. ‘Your materials.’ Geralt swallowed, putting the flower down and handing the man what he was owed. He left the apothecary a little lightheaded and walked towards the market, Roach at his heels.

Ciri was sitting on a bench, a bundle of honey cakes open on her lap. Two were left and she tied the cloth with twine and put it into Roach’s saddlebags along with the produce. She rinsed her hands and Geralt helped her into Roach’s saddle. She adjusted herself and they made their way to an inn.

Roach stabled and brushed down; they entered the inn. It was crowded and the patrons’ rowdy, the common area lit by the sun and sconces. Geralt secured a room without struggle and they climbed the rickety staircase to their room at the very end of the right corridor.

It was clean with two beds, a stone fireplace and a dresser shoved in the corner next to the window. A curtain divided the room and the washing area. 

‘I’ll send for a bath.’ He said, unclasping the clock, he placed it on the bed the closest to the door and propped his swords against the wall. Taking his weapons down would draw unnecessary attention. Ciri plopped down on her own bed and began rifling through her bags, pulling out a little pouch in which glass bottles clanked together.

Geralt unfastened the buckles holding his armour in place and removed the vambrace and chest plate, putting them next to the cloak. He tugged the cloak back on and hummed a farewell to Ciri.

After they were both bathed and ate (a surprisingly hearty stew with bits of carrots, potatoes, peas, and lamb) Ciri fell asleep and Geralt followed. None of them had a nightmare that night.

They remained in the city for two days, replenishing their strength and restocking on supplies to take to the Witcher keep. Mostly spices, nuts, and long-lasting food. Wood was plentiful and Geralt kept clothes in his room. Ciri purchased a couple of books, a notebook, quill and nibs, and ink. Lots of ink. She wanted to document everything she saw at the stone fortress; the Witchers she met and the stories they told.

She reminded the Witcher of a certain bard.

‘Geralt?’ Ciri was walking beside him, looking everywhere at once.

‘Hmm.’

‘Why aren’t you travelling with Yennefer?’ Ciri asked the same question the first week of their acquaintance. He didn’t have an answer then and didn’t have an answer now. He knew she was alive but didn’t know where. The battle at Sodden Hill left many of the mages weak and they had all dispersed across the continent, hidden away to regain their strength. Nilfgaard had snatched people away from their beds if they suspected they had a minuscule amount of information. Whether it was useful or not was decided later.

Yennefer was probably in one of her many magic manors, guarded by preplaced wards and shields.

Jaskier with his elven lute was hopefully tucked away at a court and far away from the treacherous hands of their enemy.

‘No need to travel together,’ It was the only answer he could give.

‘What about my magic?’ Ciri asked. Her magic was getting more unstable due to the lack of practice and she needed a capable teacher soon. There was only so much she could learn from the old volumes in Vesemir’s library.

‘We’ll find her.’ He promised. Most likely, she’ll find them. What had Jaskier said about Yennefer? Something about Witchers eventually running into monsters. Yennefer wasn’t one and he wanted to hit Jaskier upside the head but in retrospect, it was a little funny.

They reached Kaer Morhen four days later. A sudden storm had blown through forcing them to find shelter. They found a cave occupied by a strange-looking creature with big floppy ears and a small head. Ciri thought it was a bear but Geralt told her no bear looked like that. One look a the two of them, it scrambled away.

Whatever kindling they collected was too damp thus rendering the flint and steel pointless. It took Geralt casting Igni _five_ times before a spark ignited the wood and a small fire began to heat their cold, sore bones. Ciri was quivering like a leaf, her eyes dull and lips purple. The Witcher wrapped every spare blanket he could find then sat close to share his body heat, rubbing her small hands in his own ungloved ones. She regained colour and the ghostly pallor left her face before she fell asleep.

‘The first spell I’m going to learn is how to stay warm.’ Ciri said, voice quivering.

‘A little advanced but sure. You’ll be able to by winter's end and then it will be useless.’ He didn’t know the first thing about magic save for the little bit that flowed through him. But Ciri laughed and that’s what mattered.

Roach was lounging with her horse blanket covering her, looking at the fire as if deep in thought.

The snowstorm passed and at dawn, they began the perilous climb of the mountain to the keep. Geralt led with Ciri on Roach. If they had the coin to spare, he would buy her a horse and take the load of Roach.

The journey was long, but ice hadn’t frozen along the path making the climb easier and faster.

Ciri gasped when she saw the looming fortress in the distance. It had lost a lot of its former glory after the sacking, but it was home. Vesemir was the only one who lived in it year-round. The sole tower at the back of the keep had begun to crumble a couple of years ago designating it as the main area of focus of reconstruction.

‘Vesemir’s Fortress of Solitude,’ Lambert guffawed, drunk out of his mind, hitting his knee. ‘We should put a sign on the door. It will surely keep everyone out.’

Vesemir, the oldest wolf, was waiting for him— _them_ —by the gatehouse, most likely seeing them from the parapets. He pulled Geralt into an embrace, patting him on the back before turning towards Ciri and giving a short bow, and welcoming them inside. Geralt noticed daffodils growing outside the keep, winter yet to strike them.

‘Princess Cirilla.’ Vesemir said, his voice deep and soft and she waved a hand.

‘Are Eskel and Lambert here?’ Geralt asked walking towards the stables.

‘Eskel arrived two weeks ago and Lambert a week. Bought the Cat with him.’ Vesemir said before walking into the keep, probably to go hide away in his library since his ‘Fortress of Solitude’ as Lambert amply put it was being invaded.

Geralt helped Ciri down, guiding Roach to her stall and unsaddled her, putting the bags on the floor. He saw the three other horses and fed a carrot to Scorpion, the nearest of the bunch. Ciri brushed down Roach, making her coat gleam in the sunlight filtering through the cracks.

‘Ciri?’ the Witcher called and the princess turned. ‘Eskel’s scars. Don’t ask him about them. He’ll tell you if he wants. Lambert is a prick but don’t be afraid to put him in his place. Aiden isn’t too bad, mostly silent, and sticks to Lambert.’

Ciri nodded, going over it in her head. ‘What’s a Cat?’

They walked into the main hall, a fire in the hearth, cocooning the entire room with warmth. Other than that, it was empty. Bowls were left on the table with swords scattered around. Geralt could hear the three Witcher’s training in the courtyard. Introductions could wait. Leaving the bags on the table, he picked up his own and Ciri’s.

‘Witchers from another school. Schools, where we trained, have names. We’re the Wolves and Aiden’s a Cat.’ Geralt said, guiding her towards the stairs. Vesemir didn’t know Ciri was coming so the only room aired and dusted was his own. He picked the room opposite his, Eskel’s three doors to the left, and Lambert and Vesemir’s a floor below. Gods knew where the Cat slept. 

‘Wolves are cool.’ Ciri declared. He looked down at her. Her hair was limp and stringy, having not washed it for days and she had dark circles under her eyes and the cheeks were pale and she was as thin as a wafer. But she had a bounce in her step as the Witcher showed her the room. It consisted of a neatly made bed, a dresser, a table, and a bath. He walked over to the hearth stacked with firewood opposite the bed and cast Igni and a fire erupted to life.

‘When you’re ready, I’ll introduce you to the others.’ He said, closing the door behind him.

‘Geralt?’ He opened the door slightly, sticking his head in.

‘Thank you. For all of it.’ Ciri almost whispered tears welling up in her eyes, looking slightly out of place in the stone fortress. She’ll make it her own he was sure of it.

‘Always Ciri.’

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

_I have walked out in rain—and back in rain._

_I have outwalked the furthest city light._

_I have looked down the saddest city lane._

_I have passed by the watchman on his beat_

_And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain._

_I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet_

_When far away an interrupted cry_

_Came over houses from another street,_

_But not to call me back or say good-bye;_

_And further still at an unearthly height,_

_One luminary clock against the sky_

_Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right._

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

| Robert Frost, "Acquainted with the Night" |

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to add where I got the inspirations from.  
> This tweet: https://twitter.com/thebardjaskier/status/1359369825173274624?s=20  
> Also, her art is absolutely gorgeous. 
> 
> Here's a cookie: 🍪  
> Thank you again for reading and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.  
> Comment and critique!  
> Leave a Kudo too 🥰.


	3. STORY UPDATE!!

Hi everybody! 👋🏼

Here's a cookie: 🍪

Firstly, I hope everyone is doing well. 

Secondly, a huge thank you to everyone who read, commented, kudoed, subscribed, bookmarked; you are the true gems of this fandom and platform. 🥰

Quick announcement: 

Univerisity has been a bit hectic so I haven't gotten much time to write and edit the story. I have written chapters 3 and 4 but they're a bit meh so they both require heavy editing. Honestly, I had so many plans for this story and the story sort of started medias res when I should have given a back story/prequel/prologue. So, when university finishes (soon 🙌), I'll update with actual chapters but for now, this story is on hold. Though, I promise I will update the story and will not abandon it. 

What the plan is:

I've thought quite a bit about the background of the main story and plan on adding that. Basically, Chapters 1 and 2 will remain the same but will no longer be labelled 'Chapter 1 and Chapter 2' though the title of the chapters will stay the same. It gives more context to what I want to write. 

Also, I've planned out the plot and storyline so there will be 12-15 chapters overall. I don't have a schedule yet but when uni finishes then I'll get one up and running. 

It's tough when you've created the entire story in your head so putting it down on paper (or a word document) is difficult especially getting all the important nuances and minute details in.

Latenight day(night?)dreaming is the best. Helps a lot. 

Also, I have a bunch of WIPs for this fandom that I've started which I now regret because I want to finish this one. 

Curse The Witcher for being such a brilliant source of inspiration. 

Okay, I'm going to stop now. 

Take care everybody, stay safe, wear a mask, wash your hands, and social distance. 

Thank you again! 🤗

Mare Manz

P.S. I will take this down as soon as I start posting chapters again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi *waves*  
> Thank you for making it to the end.  
> I feed on comments and feedback.  
> Kudos are welcome too


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